


Missing Moonlight

by Drapetomania



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (tiny bit), Alpha Derek, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Demonic Possession, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Fire, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Healing, Human Sacrifice, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Minor Character Death Mention, Nemeton, Nogitsune, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Nogitsune Trauma, Rooftops, Star Gazing, The Hale House, moving in together basically, season 3b, stiles and derek against the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drapetomania/pseuds/Drapetomania
Summary: The nogitsune is running rampant in Beacon Hills and Derek is going to do whatever it takes to stop it and save what he loves, even if that means breaking a promise to do so.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 14
Kudos: 119
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	Missing Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> My belated gift to the wonderful Kalika, who was so very patient and supportive! I hope you really like this. I'm so unsure of it, as it is rather dark. Personally, it's honestly a success that I managed to write anything at all but I guess the dark fic kind of matched this past year. Either way, I really hope you like it (considering that's literally the whole purpose of it)!!!  
> I'm so glad I managed in the end to take part in this wonderful cause, and much thanks to Kalika again, for believing in me and giving me a chance :)
> 
> Also, shoutout to kcfriedchicken on tumblr for an amazing beta, and of course to one of my internet mums, handmetheshovel, who is an around the clock support and love<3
> 
> It's not all I had hoped it to be but it's more than I could manage (in hindsight lol). This feels like an era coming to a close, and I don't know how to feel about it...
> 
> Alas, again, hope you enjoy. All of you.

The air hung heavily between the trees, thick like an eerie midnight bog, drowning out every sound and constricting Derek’s chest a quarter of an inch tighter with every breath. One would expect fog but the night was clear. Like crystal. Only the little wisps of faint white escaping Derek’s cold, quivering nose added a blooming hazy layer, curling and unfurling in short bursts, mirroring the spiraling trail of the milky way above, merely missing a few sparkling emeralds. It would have been pretty, yet… nothing about this night was.

Out on patrol to keep an eye out for anything suspicious, a single clue or even the entire damn solution, Derek’s sight was reduced entirely down to shadows by an almost natural, bone-chilling scent. Derek was no stranger to blood -- be it dripping from his fingertips or coating his limbs, be it red or black or purplish, or even hiding in a dark floorboard stain. That’s why he knew it would always be as much of an assault to his senses as it had been the first time. He hadn’t even been aware of how much a single body could hold back then. At this point he might know more about it than an expert crime scene analyst. Still, experience never made death any easier.

Derek’s feet were rooted to the forest floor, as if he could become one with the trees, become still and silent and forget the last seven years of despair, letting his branches sway with the wind in blissful oblivion. For minutes on end, he was unable to rid himself of the weight of dread. He knew exactly what was waiting for him on the other side of the wide oak. No matter how hard he trained, life was a heavy burden, enough to make the tension in his shoulders feel like ancient conglomerate, stacked and pressed for centuries, ready to shatter and crumble at the slightest blow of the next hammer. How did Atlas ever withstand the entirety of the universe resting on his back?

Right. As Stiles had once put it he shouldered on.

A breath in, and out, and 9 steps till he could see around the tree to catch sight of limp, sneakered feet just barely brushing the leafy ground, toes resting in a murky puddle. Derek’s thumb was already on quick dial before he even lifted his gaze up to confirm the key signs of another human sacrifice. He didn't need to see the gruesome details of the crime because he could hear- 

Derek held the dialing cell phone away from his ear to see if he could truly hear… no heartbeat, still, but instead; a ringing. Stiles' ringtone, for him. He would recognize it anywhere. Who else would have I’m Blue by Eiffel 65 blaring through the woods at this time of night in this day and age? 

Tilting his head toward the distant tune, Derek ended the call, cutting it short just a moment after.

Stiles. 

With this more pressing matter at hand, he took off in a hurried pace in his direction, noting that he  _ couldn't  _ pick up on the boy's scent just yet. So, he hadn't seen the corpse yet. Good. Derek could steer him away. With all the nightmares, sleep-walking, insomnia, blurred vision and heavily skewed focus that he had been dealing with lately, he really didn't need the added stress. If only Derek could've sent him off on vacation. The sad reality was that he wasn't sure they would manage to figure out in whom the nogitsune hiding without him. Nor how to get rid of the sadistic creature.

The closer Derek stepped to where he could perceive Stiles standing, the more he was aware though, that this whole game was a losing battle. Stiles' scent was off. Not only was it saturated with distress, but it seemed watered down and spiced with something plain  _ wrong _ . Even his movements were rusty. Little minute jerks in his elbows and shoulders contrasted the stiffness in his fingers. Stiles was angling them to and fro, outstretched in front of his face. 

Derek sprinted the last remaining steps to Stiles' side, hands hovering around his shoulders, hesitant to touch. There was something coating Stiles’ fingers, dark as the deadly night. Derek immediately recognized the scent. It wasn’t a hard feat when he had only just smelled its source a minute ago. At least it wasn’t Stiles’... but something cold took siege of Derek’s stomach anyway. And he knew exactly what it was, without the thought actually forming a clear image - he shook it off before it could.

“Stiles.” The word made it smoothly past his lips but seemed to disappear into the night without impact. As safe as the name was, it seemed Derek was merely moving his mouth without sound, copying the frightened teen in front of him. Even Derek’s heartbeat appeared to have sped up to match Stiles’. But showing fear was a weakness and seeing as Stiles looked ready to crumble himself, Derek had to stand tall. He cleared his throat, pulling his shoulders back and chin up.

Stiles jumped and stumbled at the sound, toes catching on a root, and he pitched forward, straight as a board, hands raised but palms still facing himself. Now, Derek’s hand shot out to catch Stiles, contact inevitable. The teen was solid under his hands - real. The front of his hoodie was damp and Derek was too afraid to look down and confirm his suspicion.

He tried to steady Stiles in front of him, but kept hold of him just in case.

“Hey,” he tried again, softly. There was no way around waking Stiles, if he was even sleep walking that was… Derek wished he was the one having a nightmare he could wake from. Go back to before the darkness had swallowed three teenager’s hearts, before they had ever been pulled into this whole hell of a life in the first place. Derek’s life.

But that was a course of action way beyond Derek’s reach - probably even Deaton’s, though there was no way of saying for sure. Deaton kept many secrets. Who was Derek to judge though when he was already constructing a plan on how to keep another of his own.

“I… I ha-... my-” A tremor passed through Stiles as he tried to speak, strong enough it almost made Derek’s knees shake, and he tightened his grip on Stiles’ arm.

“You found it,” he told him firmly. Steady.

A beat, no sound. Derek wished he could hold his breath and quiet his heartbeat just so he wouldn’t disturb a single living molecule with his presence. But that control ran from him like a hen on the loose. Or rather, more like playing poker for your life against enemies you can’t see, while having no clue whatsoever what the cards that were thrust into your hands even mean.

“I found it?” Stiles asked.

“You found it,” Derek repeated, as he held and stood and stared, or stood and held and wondered in which direction the next step should go when they all lay in darkness. He was taken aback when suddenly Stiles’ back hit his chest, folding in against him without restraint, like Derek was the safe one out of the two. Stiles’ head tipped back on Derek’s shoulder, his hair brushing Derek’s jaw ever so lightly, but the only thing he really took in was the way Stiles’ hand glistened in full view now, blood not yet dried, and taunting Derek with the truth.

“I found it,” Stiles mumbled, fingers finally relaxing and curling, although now they resembled eager claws. “But-” Stiles then started, and this time Derek truly couldn’t breathe. “What did I find?”

**※⌘※⌘※⌘※**

It said a lot about the trust Derek had gained that the sheriff had placed Stiles under his care as soon as he had arrived on scene. There had been no greeting for Derek, just a look and instructions to “take him home” after he had explained the situation. Stiles had still been a little incoherent and quite confused and he was the sheriff’s only son, his sole remaining family member, and Derek was appalled that John had not hesitated to leave him with Derek while he continued with the criminal procedure. Of course, Derek would do whatever it took to protect Stiles but having Stiles entrusted to him by his father left Derek quite speechless.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, but just… stay with him, will you?” He had asked, gazing at Derek with those tired, vulnerable eyes. His fear was palpable, excruciatingly so, and it did nothing to calm Derek’s nerves. Guilt quickly followed as the sheriff asked if there was anything more Derek wanted to tell him before anyone else arrived. Derek had answered with a no and fled.

Minutes later he had been in the man’s house, drawing Stiles a bath, making him tea, and, in general, keeping him company. Not Scott, not Melissa, but him. Derek Hale. Derek tucked Stiles into bed, even under his protests. It was all kinds of intimate and awkward and just  _ too much  _ because Derek never cared for people like this anymore. He kept a very, very, very generous distance. Nonetheless, he didn’t run as soon as he got the chance.

Instead, he ended up on the roof, just above Stiles’ bedroom window. At first he hovered, knees pulled up and fists clenched in his jacket pockets, waiting to hear the heartbeat beneath him even out. Then he laid back on the tiles and watched the grey clouds pass over a dark blue sky. Dawn would be coming soon enough, which would all at once be a relief to Derek’s watch, but also carried dread with it. He didn’t want to have to face the facts. Everything that was happening with Stiles… was not good, to put it simply.

As if the young male could hear his name being called, there was a rustle, footsteps, and then the light scraping sound of the window being hoisted up. Derek lifted himself, scooting further toward the edge of the roof to peek down just in time to see Stiles’ head peak out.

“I knew you’d be there,” he declared, though his tone fell flat, the usual smugness wiped out. Derek sighed as he watched him start climbing onto the window sill.

“Go back to sleep Stiles,” he demanded, albeit quietly. He didn’t need the neighbors waking up to see the 17 year old climbing out to him. His eyes narrowed at the awkward angle Stiles chose, impractical hand holds.

“Literally impossible. I actually haven’t slept a wink.” Usual smart-assery. It almost awoke a bitter urge in Derek to smile.

“I know, I could hear you not sleeping but I also told you to stay in bed until you got sleep or I would- ”

“Knock me out yourself, yeah, yeah. I heard you. And I could hear you brooding, too. That shit’s way too heavy, man. No one can sleep with that hovering above their heads. Now give me a hand before I split my head open like humpty dumpty when I have a great fall from this window.” Stiles was standing on the window sill at this point, one arm hooked inside it to keep his balance, the other held out toward Derek.

Derek stared and Stiles waited, giving a kind of look that he knew would melt Derek’s resolve. There was no telling what it was about it, if it were the eyes or the quirk of the lips, the open invitation. But it worked. Half a minute later, Derek was tugging Stiles up and helping him scramble onto the roof. He wondered if the rough tiles would scrape up his knees through the thin pajamas and his bare feet.

“If there is any indication of your dad coming to check on you, I’m out of here,” he warned Stiles before settling back in his position, shoulders pulled in, jaw set, staring out into the sky.

“Noted. I think it’s in both our interests I don’t tell him you’ve started stalking me.” Stiles crossed his legs and leaned back on both arms, letting his head fall back to look up. 

Count on Stiles to make an awkward situation like this even more awkward. He was a 22 year old on the roof with a teenager, whom he was… protecting. If he had ever known he would be here again, scared to put down an obvious threat even at quite compelling evidence… his past self would’ve given himself a sturdy kick to the butt. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get emotional anymore.

“I’m not stalking you.” 

But it seemed too late for that.

“We could also define it as you being my personal guard dog. And you came for free at that, and totally trained.”

Derek just didn’t understand why it had to be Stiles. Why did every life or death matter have to come with Stiles these days? Stiles prevented death, not just Derek’s but also others. He prolonged life, he gave life, he…

And now…

Derek shook his head.

“I could also just push you off this roof,” he muttered, when he realized he’d been silent for a moment too long. Stiles had shrunk in on himself in the meantime, hands hanging in his lap. He was pulling at his pant leg with a completely unsuccessful smile.

“Well, there’s the one thing we can always count on. You don’t like me. So what I ask of you… won’t be hard to do,” Stiles said. His tone was casual enough in the moment, that Derek couldn’t tell where this was going. Of course, Stiles had a way of running about the mill and grinding the gears unnecessarily before he got to the point. It made Derek nervous, having the time to pick up on all the minute details of his body language and try to read from it.

But Stiles was a maze of a foreign language, twisting and turning in ever changing ways. Maybe that’s why this felt like such a horror movie. Stiles was someone one should fear. He was someone capable of becoming…

And was that the reason Derek was here? To try and stop the horror? Make sure he knew where the monster was at all times so he could beat it?

“Derek, I-” Stiles stated, abruptly turning towards him. Remarkably, Derek didn’t flinch. 

No, he was not here out of fear. That had been pretty obvious from the start. He was just beating around the bush himself this time.

“I need you to do something for me… which okay it sounds, pretentious? Is that the word? Demanding, for sure. But I need you to listen. And then… do this, for me. Okay?” Stiles was looking over with withering determination at this point, rubbing at the tip of his thumb.

“Out with it,” Derek huffed. “There’s nothing you can say anymore that can shock me.”

Total lie. But Stiles didn’t have to know. If he thought Derek didn’t like him, despite all the time they had spent together over the last year, especially during the summer, looking for Erica and Boyd, well… He wasn’t going to spell out to him that he kind of did trust him now. Probably more than kind of. Maybe a lot.

He knew Stiles could never become the villain.

“If I… If my,” Stiles lifted his hands to move them like invisible currents around his head. “My symptoms… have anything to do with the… nogitsune,” he breathed the name with the weight of a thousand crushed dreams, his frail light lips painted with sorrow and dread and fear all at once. Derek wondered how he was still moving them.

“If it’s hidden in… inside me, which is becoming ever more probable by the day than it just being the dementia, and- and we can’t figure out a way to stop it before… You need to end it. You need to kill me.” With his kitten-claw fingers curled into his leg, Stiles found his strength again here, lifting his chin with set jaws and finding Derek’s bewildered gaze. The shadows around his fingertips reminded of the blood. “You need to end this before anyone else gets hurt. I can’t- I can’t let anymore people die because of me, Derek. I don’t care if it kills me, if that’s our only option, if that’s any kind of option, the easiest option. I have to do that before more innocent people get hurt. Especially so that the people around me are safe. If- if it’s inside me, how do I know I won’t hurt my dad? Or Scott? Or you?”

‘You won’t,’ Derek wants to say. Or ‘I don’t matter’ or ‘It’s not you’. But his vocal chords are cemented, caught stiff at such a bold request from someone so physically… not frail, nor weak nor unjust but- someone so young, so ungrown, with a whole life ahead to mold and thrive and become what he was meant to be. Because that someone promised to be something great.

And that’s why the nogitsune had chosen Stiles, Derek realized. His stomach contracted. The nogitsune had chosen Stiles. There was no way around that one anymore. The coincidences were too great. And he was chosen because he was smarter than all. His mental capabilities were a fortress and a half, and his durability- well, what more to say than he was a boy who ran with wolves, literally.

Derek had to face the truth if he wanted to find a solution.

“Derek, can you promise me that? Please?”

The touch on his arm, as well as the use of his name felt so foreign, Derek wasn’t quite so sure he hadn’t entered a dream somehow, fallen asleep as Stiles’ side. The last thing they needed was for Derek to start sleepwalking.

He forced the biting air in and past his clenched ribs. “I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to get rid of it,” he says, clamps down on the whirling emotions. They didn’t have time for those. 

“Thank you.” If the sigh that came from Stiles was relief or fear, Derek couldn’t tell. Alike the storm in himself, Stiles’ essence briefly sparked and flickered before muting, and together they sank into silence like a ship into fog.

The horizon was starting to thaw to their right, clearing the murky blue. The first birds bore their shrill voices to the conquering sun, or maybe they’d already been calling on it far before Derek had noticed. Stiles braced an elbow on his knee and propped his chin up in his hand, like gravity and insomnia had suddenly increased with the light of day, and Derek had kind of preferred sitting with him in the night.

“When I used to have nightmares as a kid and woke up in the middle of the night while my mom was still alive, she would sit me out on the porch and we’d wait for the sunrise together. Funny thing is, I always fell asleep in her lap before I ever saw the hint of the sun,” Stiles suddenly shared. 

“I’m not offering you my lap,” Derek replied, lamely. That much should be obvious.

But hey. Stiles let out a light laugh. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to, sourwolf,” he mused, shaking his head. He continued with a solemn tone, like the whole world’s plight was to blame on the rotation of the earth. “I didn’t see one until after she died. And at that point I didn’t care for it anymore.”

Derek wished he had something to curse for all the poison spread through their world, but he wasn’t quite sure what he believed in, couldn’t quite remember if he had believed in anything at all, as steadfastly as he had in his parents.

“I hate sunrises, too,” he said, unsure of what more remained to be said and Stiles voiced his response with a single hum and so they sat and waited to watch the sky bleed.

**※⌘※⌘※⌘※**

  
  


Deaton had long fallen silent but Derek could still hear his incantations drifting through the air. He didn’t know how he’d gotten here. 

The last few days and nights were a single blur of sleeplessness and constant motion, the days before a distant memory, and Stiles - unrecognizable. It weren’t the dark circles under his eyes, nor the ashy paleness that made him look like he had been drained of all life, stark blue veins visible beneath as if his skin was feathery-thin. No, it was not all that as much as it was the general construction of his face. He didn’t look like Stiles at all. Someone with Stiles’ features, maybe, but otherwise completely foreign.

When the nogitsune smiled, there was a chill to the air. There was nothing appealing about it in the least; cold, malicious, ruthless… terrifying. A true monster using Stiles’ face, and currently Stiles’ hands to tilt up Derek’s face from where he was squatting in front of the fallen werewolf. The touch that he’d repeatedly woken to from near death was now toxic, like he could actually feel his own soul retract and wither.

What was it then that had gotten him here, Derek could not comprehend. Wherever did the hope come from that Stiles was still hidden in there? One would think he knew better than to give monsters second chances at this point.

Stiles hadn’t shown himself in days - days in which Derek had searched for him, following blood and bodies, had protected his body from anyone who had decided that taking him out was the only choice - almost everyone who knew of him at this point. He’d fought a whole band of Argents, lead by Chris, multiple times. The first few days he’d worked with them, out of desperation, but the plan was always to save Stiles.

  
  


They had come surprisingly close to successfully executing it. Except that no one - not the sheriff, nor Chris, nor Deaton - had been able to predict Derek’s actions in that crucial hour. It had all come to terrible fruition, here, now, in an abandoned warehouse at the edge of town, on uninhabited preserve land. It was supposed to lower the possible body count. There were still too many bodies covering the warehouse floor around them to count. Derek could only hope that some of the beating hearts he still heard would make it through the night.

As the nogitsune leered, looking his mangled body up and down, Derek’s stomach flipped and bile rose. He was glad he hadn’t gotten the chance to eat lately. Not that the scene around him could get much worse, vomit or no vomit. He forced himself to hold the deadly gaze, as shaky as he might be.

“Oh you’re just a vessel of misery. Like a gift on a golden platter,” the nogitsune said. The sound of his voice tickled with familiarity but its sinister tone held none of Stiles’ personality. The nogitsune held itself and moved with the grace of a Zombie. Its power lay not in the physical realm after all. Of course, there were the skills it'd picked up from years of practice. Years of masking itself and manipulating its host body to it's own desire. Derek could only guess that a part of Stiles' consciousness had been aware or at the very least being accessed, while the demon had been pretending to be him. Hopefully he wasn't too aware though.

"You can have me," Derek replied through heaving breaths, feeling his wounds starting to heal sporadically, albeit rather slowly. "Just give the others a chance. The sheriff at least. And I'll do anything you want."

Derek didn't know what he was doing, couldn't seem to tell wrong from right. Or well, maybe he did, telling by the guilt that seemed to be constricting his stomach, remembering the way Stiles had pleaded for Derek's cooperation. 

But he couldn't. He'd stayed up nights, trying to visualize the scene, of Stiles in his arms, lifeless. Tried to settle with the fact that he was going to help orchestrate his death, giving the hunters permission, to do it for him. He wasn't even physically capable of speaking those words alone in the dark, throat filled with tar. Whether it was the memory of the crack beneath his hands just before his first love died in his embrace, or if it was just Stiles… he couldn't do it. 

And so with a fluttering heart, he made a deal with the current devil of Beacon Hills, knowing this time he truly was making the choice for innocent souls to be written on his account. Where former instances in his life were questionable, this time he was going in consciously, and whether Derek had already felt like he was going to hell before or not, he knew there would be no more doubt now. Not even Stiles would be able to tell him otherwise.

If he managed to get him back.  _ When _ , he reprimanded himself.  _ When I get him back _ . 

The nogitsune's shoulders shook but it took Derek a moment to hear beyond the rushing in his ears to pick out the breathless laughing coming from his mouth.

"I knew there had to be a reason I liked you," the demon murmured. The grip on his chin tightened uncomfortably for a moment, before the thumb brushed almost sensually across Derek's jaw. It sent a shiver down to the pit of his stomach not unlike a writhing worm crawling through his spine. The bile rose again.

The nogitsune stood abruptly. "Have someone come get him or whatever," he said, already walking away. "And come with me."

Derek fought onto all fours numbly, telling himself to push through, to stop thinking but he couldn't stop his body from heaving this time.

**※⌘※⌘※⌘※**

It was strange and rather quite frightening how surprisingly easy it was to swallow his pride and fall into that fog where Derek didn’t have to care or feel or even think. He felt void of a soul. More than once he considered how much better off everyone would have been if the nogitsune had chosen him as its victim rather than Stiles. No one would hesitate in killing Derek off.

This peculiar state of his didn’t allow any proper sleep, although he did feel like he was in a constant half-doze under threat to slip into unconsciousness. Unfortunately sleep only came laced with nightmares. Streaks of long blonde hair sparked fires in his chest, while the smoke swirled with soft words that masked gentle yet poisonous touches. And the hands on his bare skin were the only thing keeping him continued and alive, until suddenly the sharp fingernails dug into his gut and he’d wake with a jolt, cradling his chest with a gasp and an echo of  _ you did this to yourself _ in his ear.

He’d risen to the nogitsune’s calculating gaze a few times before he was suddenly waking to Stiles’ hands on his chest, holding him down with a force that left Derek trembling. He gasped for air, staring into darkened amber eyes just above a subtle smirk.

“Shhh, go back to sleep,” the nogitsune would whisper, anything but soothing, and Derek would collapse back into his dreams. The rasping of the demon’s voice followed him in black tendrils, grasping at him like clawed fingertips, splitting and multiplying, tearing until his mind was being cracked open to reveal nothing but darkness.

The amount of feeding the nogitsune was doing off of him hadn’t been something Derek had accounted for beforehand. It could’ve been a good thing if only the nogitsune’s hunger weren’t continuously growing. The upside to the growing frustration and action of the demon was that it seemed to be forgetting the physical body’s need for sleep. It eventually grew sluggish and clumsy, eyes drooping. 

“Even demons need sleep,” he insisted, trying to urge it to the makeshift bed. Derek had lead them back to the abandoned underground train station. He refused to feel guilty for bringing the demon to a place he called ‘home’ - or more specifically, a safe hideout to crash in as a werewolf trying to build a pack and gain in power. It was rather fitting for the nogitsune as well and with the post-apocalyptic vibe Beacon Hills had going on at the moment.

'Stiles’ hadn’t shown any notion of recognizing the place. Then again, the real Stiles within hadn’t given him any kind of sign whatsoever. Was he still in there? Did he have any new clues about how to help him get out of there? Was he here now? What could Derek do? Was he doing the right-

_ No.  _ No. He didn't have the option to second guess himself. He needed to keep doing what he could in the moment and try to keep a grip on his sanity. Stiles' body needed sleep, if anything so that he didn't feel like he'd been hit by a truck when he came back to himself.

"Demons don't need sleep," the thing said harshly but it did stagger to the old, dusty mattress and let itself fall.

Derek shrugged. "Your physical form does."

"How do I know you won't attack me as soon as I close my eyes?"

Derek squatted down at the nogitsune's side, making a mental apology to Stiles for putting him into this come down bed. As he lifted the tattered blanket up and onto Stiles' legs, he was aggressively overcome a flashback to a week or so ago when he'd tucked Stiles into bed as per the sheriff's orders. 

" _ Take him home _ ," the sheriff had said. " _ Stay with him _ ." And when the sun rose, the world was shattered by a " _ Kill me _ ," from Stiles. Derek had entertained the thought if that had also already been the nogitsune. But it couldn't have. That had been purely Stiles.

He wanted him back.

Derek looked tiredly up to the demon, who was laying back now and to his relief found the eyes closed so he didn’t bother with a reply. What more could he promise when he’d already gotten blood on his hands?

And Stiles’. Derek watched the twitching fingers at his side solemnly. He had helped clean the blood from between each of them when Stiles had despaired trying to wash it all off. Right before he had made the promise he’d always known he would break. Something deep inside him had, at least. 

With a jolt Derek realized he was reaching for those lanky yet deft fingers with an inexplicable desire to massage the calluses away. He’d never realized how much of an effect their action-packed, supernatural lifestyle had on Stiles. He was aware of the risk since he had nearly died many, many times himself - and Stiles didn’t have his kind of powers - but the moment he noticed something small like this, stubborn little scars, only noticeable on his pale skin in certain angles against the light, it hit him under the skin in an uncomfortable way. Derek had discovered one scar on the back of Stiles’ hand by touch alone and he wondered about the story it held, contemplating how Stiles probably remembered the exact moment he’d sustained the wound but probably still considered his prior actions worthwhile. Now, it was a part of him, and always would be, like a fold in time and space, a glimpse of fragility and permanence all at once. A reminder to treasure all one had.

Derek couldn’t stop to wonder how many scars he himself would have had at this point - disregarding the fact that he’d definitely be dead. Neither did he have the time to stop and think about if his physical scars would have made him less or maybe even more aware of his emotional ones. Maybe it would’ve helped him understand that he could never be the same as he once was, setting the question of guilt aside, and maybe he’d have realized earlier that scarred didn’t mean broken and irreparable. 

A light sound made its way from between Stiles’ lips, instantly capturing Derek’s attention. It was a reflex to sit up, lean in, fingertips finally brushing the back of Stiles’ hand. In response, Stiles suddenly grabbed his wrist and tore his eyes wide open. His breaths came in rapid gasps, body exploding with panic and it was instantly clear that this was in fact-

“Stiles!” the word left Derek in desperate euphoria, as if he was the one unable to breathe. The temptation to clutch at Stiles’ face to make sure he was alive and well was great but he reigned in his need for contact, swallowing down the whine in his throat. It had definitely been too long since he had held a normal conversation. Not that anything about this situation was normal.

Tears had already streaked their way down Stiles’ cheeks, spurred on by his rapid blinking. They were flung into free fall from his jerking chin and Derek felt like he could see his very soul trouble.

_ This was his fault _ .

“I’m sorry,” was all the comfort he could offer as he sat helplessly at Stiles’ side. “I’m sorry. So sorry.” Like that was an excuse. Like that could fix everything and mend the pain oh so seamlessly.

“Y-y-youu have… ‘ave to,” Stiles tried to speak but the words crumbled from his mouth, dislodged by hiccups and hounded by winded sobs. His free hand found its way up to his neck like an arrow to tug on his neckline, fingernails scratching on the way down as he pulled and bared pale, dotted skin, from where his heartbeat audibly hammered.

All Derek could do was shake his head. 

_ Never _ .

And that was a promise he hoped to keep past his dying breath. He wouldn’t let Stiles succumb.

Stiles whimpered, losing hold on Derek’s wrist. For however little sense it made, Derek suddenly feared Stiles would splinter to dust before his eyes so he gathered up as much of him as he could reach and pulled him into what he wished he could call safety.

Yet, Stiles’ sobs continued and Derek could do nothing to ease the pain, could only allow Stiles to grapple for air and dig for answers in his chest.

“I’ll get you out of there,” he promised, not realizing how blurry his own vision was getting until Stiles’ breath swept coolly across his damp cheeks. “We’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.

Stiles was shaking his head vehemently and all Derek could do was repeat what sounded like hollow words but didn’t feel as such inside his ribcage. He could only hope Stiles could somehow sense that persistent surge from inside him.

“We need you, Stiles.  _ I  _ need you,” his tongue unraveled. “Beacon Hills needs you. The world needs you. Needs your strength and your wits and your heart. And I know that’s too much to ask but you can do it. I know you can.”

He spoke until the numb words had dazed his own limbs and he rediscovered Stiles sound asleep in his arms. Then, he continued to hold him just a little while longer, until the light faded from his sight.

**※⌘※⌘※⌘※**

_ "Trust me,” _ he’d demanded of Stiles that night, though Derek couldn’t be sure he’d heard it.  _ Trust me with this because I have such strong trust in you. _

And now he was preparing him a bed of nemeton roots, infused with lichen and mixed with mountain ash best as he could. Well, it was for the nogitsune, mostly. Stiles would need a lot more than that to heal from this particular wound but Derek didn’t even know where to begin there, and if he had anything to offer at all.

He’d been running all over Beacon Hill’s and its barricaded buildings the past few days, fueled with invigorated hope. Derek had even been forced to assume a position of trust with Peter. They’d all seen Stiles’ potential spark. Peter claimed it should work just like it had with Lydia; merely triggering Stiles’ powers. 

Unfortunately, the thought of biting Stiles triggered Derek in a very negative way. He’d seen too many bites go wrong… especially concerning people he cared about… deeply.

But short of having Stiles impaled by the Oni’s swords, there was nothing else he could do.

Again, Derek told no one of his plan. He made sure Peter was otherwise occupied, ideally still keeping Deaton distracted as well. Even though with Peter you could never exactly tell what was going on, Derek just resolved to work fast.

With some stolen liquid lichen, he’d brought food for the demon. It still didn’t fully trust him but it had acknowledged that dark magic alone would not keep his host alive. So, Derek had played maid to his advantage, adding hopefully enough of the magic concoction to rob the nogitsune of its control of Stiles again, however temporarily. He’d also made sure that Stiles was tired, hoping that that was what had brought the real Stiles back to the surface last time.

Right before chow time, he’d lured the nogitsune into his old childhood home. The burned husk of it, that was. Derek was counting on the air of despair and death – which surely must have had its effect on the Nemeton, especially considering how there had used to be a tunnel leading directly to its roots before a certain someone had collapsed it – would be a sufficient distraction from his plan. He’d made the bed dead center of the house, at the bottom of the stairs. Stairs, that had held many secrets so far. He’d brought nogitsune in through the collapsed back so that it wouldn’t notice. And he’d promised it he was arranging for another sacrifice for him that he would like.

Derek could already hear Lydia’s heartbeat drawing near. She was early.

Stiles was blinking at him with tired eyes, face contorting towards both laughter and anger in quick succession and for a moment, Derek was sure they had lost before he had a chance to even truly try. 

Seconds crawled by. Derek bound himself to the floor mentally. Waiting too long could lead to their demise. Peter knew where they were, which could be the loose screw in the machine that crashed it, if by his appearance here or by saying the right thing to the wrong person. And well, then there was Lydia. She had seemed convinced and Derek had deemed a necessary risk for Stiles’ survival, but he couldn’t quite silence the little voice in his head that kept telling him she wasn’t as trustworthy.

Stiles’ survival could depend on minute details, split second decisions, and precise timing down to the last millisecond. Considering the fact that he didn’t know much at all about what they were dealing with, nor had he been able to test this in any way… their chances of coming out alive were bleak. His only comfort at this point was that Derek would die trying to protect someone he loved. That was really the most he could ask of his life at this point.

He didn’t want to think about failure though. It was an endless abyss with irresistible gravity.

Then it happened. Lydia screamed. Stiles gasped. Derek’s blood froze.

Somehow he made his body jump into action and rushed to Stiles’ side, once again lifting his trembling torso into his lap. He brushed Stiles’ growing hair back out of his face. His other hand found Stiles’ wrist quickly and wrapped around it, leeching the pain from the poisoning.

“No… don’t-” Stiles protested, making a weak attempt to wrestle himself out of Derek's grip. He ended up grabbing onto Derek's sleeve, instead, a whine breaking from his lips. His eyes close and body shakes with tension.

"Hey." Derek brought a hand to his cheek, tilting his head to look him in the eyes. "Stiles. Stiles, look at me. Listen, okay?"

His eyes fluttered open, revealing matching universes of pain. Derek had to swallow in attempt to dislodge the lump in his throat.

"You, Stiles," Derek said, firmly, trying not to wonder if he was doing it to remind himself or the caramel eyed boy in front of him. "You are the most stubborn son of a bitch I've ever known to exist… and that's all I'm asking of you right now. Just hold on, okay? Stay with me."

Stiles grimaced and Derek could only guess if it was aimed at him or the demon within him. “Der-” his mouth gaped for a moment, without sound. Derek found his hand slipping, sliding down to hold his hand, instead, giving it a light squeeze, as if he could even give much assurance at this very moment.

“I-I ask-d… you- why… I’m s-still-”

“I have a plan,” Derek said with determination. Stiles’ eyes searched his face, mouth pressed into a thin line. “We’re going to get him out of you. We’re stopping this.”

“Derek!” The werewolf turned to the abrupt voice. Lydia stood in the doorway, dressed practically but miraculously still somehow fashionable in loose brown pants and a light shirt and leather jacket, although hers was a light brown one and soft. Her hair had been tied back, a braid woven into it. A single strap was slung over her shoulder, leading to a rather athletic bag with no more than essentials within. 

“Do it! Before it takes over again! We don’t have much time,” she urged him. She stood tall and strong-willed but her expression betrayed her, depicting uncertainty and fear. With a nervous glance thrown back out the door, Derek was told that she had in fact informed others - probably what was left of the Argents, possibly the sheriff, and Deaton if he had survived. They would be coming for Stiles if Derek failed.

Derek turned back to the male in his arms, finding his mouth pulled deeply into a frown, teeth clenched and air being pressed forcefully through them.

“Just… end… it,” Stiles demanded, voice raw and demanding acknowledgement, rather than pleading. “I ca-an’t-” His eyelids fluttered in agony.

“You can.” Derek tugged up Stiles’ arm, teeth elongating and peeking through parted lips to show his intention. “You still trust me. And I know you can do this. Just hold onto your faith. Everything that’s kept you strong. It’s kept you you. Believe.”

He waited another moment, wishing Stiles would speak to agree but he was reduced to breathing, merely, and minute ticks of his face. He took a deeper breath to try and steady himself, a tremor in his jaw as it hovered, fractions of an inch from the pale, fragile skin.

“Derek!’ Lydia, again, from somewhere on the ground now, assumingly readying the first aid kit he’d told her to bring. He didn’t waste the time looking over.

Instinct urged him to close his eyes, but Derek had to force them back open and to focus on the the pulse point, beating all too loudly than should be possible. He pushed up the sleeve as far as it could go, and turned the arm for safer procedure. Reaching deep enough into the blood was necessary but he needed Stiles by as full strength as possible, physically at least.

There was yet a fight racing closer and it was on Derek to make the first move. With a breath, he gathered courage, and bit down.

The awful taste exploded on his tongue and Derek tried not to gag. Stiles needed his full attention. His short scream had softened into a whisper and Derek immediately tried to give reason for that to still, letting his own vein darken. They were probably quite a pair at the moment, both having seen many better days.

“It’ll all be over soon,” Derek whispered in Stiles’ ear, to make sure he heard him and that he knew that the words were only for him. He gathered him closer into his arms, up against his chest, regardless of the blood that soaked into his shirt. “You’re stronger than it.”

Derek looked up from Stiles’ tightly shut eyes, to throw a glance at Lydia and make sure she was ready for the handoff. She was to tend to the bite and anything else Stiles might need while Derek… would try to deal with the nogitsune in whichever way and form that would play out.

Lydia was fixated on the wound on Stiles’ arms, kneeling with her hands pressed against the floorboards with more force than necessary Her fingers just barely touched the ring of mountain ash Derek sat inside. It was barely visible against the dark floorboards and burned carpet, blending together to create a vision of gloom. His hair, Derek thought, in the midst of it almost like fire. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring the demon here. If all the memories of destruction happened to strengthen him.

But then again, what better place to kill an ancient, millenia old monster than a house of death?

Lydia shifted under Derek’s gaze and cleared her throat. She straightened and scooted closer.

“Lay him down again. More contact with the substances,” she told him. Derek hesitated, turning down to his lap to notice a now calmer Stiles, almost as if he had fallen asleep. Only, Derek could feel the erratic jumps of his heartbeat, see the flickering of his eyes beneath the eyelids. He didn’t want to let go, couldn’t bear the thought that after all these days of fighting for Stiles, Lydia would once again be the one that brought Stiles back. 

But he clamped down on any bitter, selfish emotions, and carefully lowered him back onto the make-shift bed, right at the edge of the inner circle, inches from Lydia’s knees. He made sure Stiles lay comfortably, arranging his arms at his side. Derek could feel the girl watching him but couldn’t help himself from leaving Stiles without a last brush of his arm, and even, compelled by a strange swell in his chest, leaned down to leave a parting kiss to his forehead. Just in case.

“It’s starting.” Lydia’s gentle voice urged him to open his eyes and lean back, just as he saw a shadow overlaying Stiles’ body, thickening like smoke of a rising fire. The only difference was that there were no swirling shapes, just a grey darkness, growing and thickening until it formed a whole separate entity above the body. There were no contours, no clear edges, just a buzzing mass with, still growing in size.

Derek backed up and rose to his feet, fingernails growing into claws as he pushed himself off the floor and took a fighting stance mid-circle.

“Go!” he called, once Stiles let out a sigh, signaling hopefully the last of the nogitsune leaving. As Lydia grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and started to tug him out, mindful of the easily upset barrier between them, Derek felt the adrenaline slowly easing, allowing space for his exhaustion, both mental and emotional, to spread through his limbs. He had to shake himself awake. His mission wasn’t complete yet.

Derek let out a roar of a growl, perhaps a show of strength or a way of boosting his own moral, and in some way, even, a tactical move, a challenge. The mass in front of him vibrated, akin to static before it settled in a mask.

Stiles’ grey face once again smirked at Derek with a high-tipping chin. But the cheeks were hollow, as well as the chest that lay beneath, silent and unmoving. Derek flinched. For all that he’d been staring at a foreign Stiles for so long, it nonetheless now felt as if he hadn’t gotten him out yet. After all, he hadn’t actively had to fight… hurt an image of the male that grown roots in his heart. Just an image, but an image too close to home.

The nogitsune looked around, noting the mountain ash with a faint hum, and Derek chose to hang onto the relief that it didn’t focus on Stiles off to his left for too long. Instead, the dark grey eyes snapped up straight to Derek’s again.

“Hello again… Derek,” the nogitsune spoke, taking a small step closer. 

Derek faltered, slipping backwards. 

To that the other let out an amused sound. “Is that… fear? For me? Oh my. I don’t think I need to point out that you were the one who poisoned me, hm. You’re the one who’s got me trapped in this very little space here,” it gestured with spread fingers to the diminishing distance between them as it neared. “And I think it’s safe to say that we all know you’re trying to kill me, so… shouldn't I be the one who's afraid?"

And yet the demon leered with confidence while Derek backed away, trying to buy himself the time to gather courage. He swallowed hard and clenched his fists. Nostrils flaring, Derek extended his claws again with a fury and let another growl build in his throat. 

This was a monster in front of him, one that had  _ used _ Stiles. And maybe to fight a monster he had to be one himself, give into the potential of what he could do. No overthinking, just teeth and claws and strength, until one way or another, it was over. No more hesitation. This was it.

_ This was not Stiles. _

Derek launched himself forward, claws first, digging them deep into the demon’s stomach. Crackling rang out and dust billowed up as he hit something too hard to be in any way human. It was as if he had dug his fingers into concrete. There was only a rather thin layer of it though, behind it, it felt like, nothing but cold and hollow. 

Derek’s stomach sank the moment he realized his mistake. Physical force was no good against a demon of manipulation, mind games and dark emotions. 

  
The nogitsune looked up from the intrusion into his torso with an ever so arrogant and delighted smirk. Next thing Derek knew, chilled rough hands were grasping his neck and Not-Stiles was leaning closer. Time crawled as he took in the hooded eyes falling to his lips, his heart acknowledging the yearning gaze from the lookalike with a particularly painful squeeze. All the breath left his lungs, body turned to stone as it awaited the contact.

But his lips met only air. His gaze was clouded by a dark fog and as his lungs shuddered for breath, he choked on dust. Busy fighting to breathe, Derek didn’t realize what was going on until he was all at once surrounded by darkness. Vague shapes skittered around him like ghosts, disappearing, reappearing. In his ears, only a weird static, rising and falling without accordance, giving him no chance to achieve any sense of familiarity.

Derek blinked furiously, or at least so he tried. He had no sense of if he was actually moving, nor was he sure he could even see himself when he looked down. What had happened?

There were two choices. Let himself get pulled back in the dizzying darkness, or… Awaken. 

_ THUMP _

Like someone had hit against thick glass planes that enveloped Derek from all sides. His vision flickered and for a heartbeat or two, he saw Stiles’ warped face jittering in front of him, his mouth open in an inaudible scream. He seemed so close, yet he was unattainable to Derek as the darkness sank again.

This wasn’t just blindness, he reasoned. It was something much worse if he was to trust his gut. And somehow Stiles had ended up right in the midst of it with him. 

_ No _ . He was supposed to save Stiles.

_ Ba bump... _

His blood rushed, turning everything red. Derek strained to curl his hands into fists, needing to feel the familiar sensation of his claws in his palms, propelling a stinging pain up his arms. But as hard as he squeezed, the numbness remained.

Derek didn’t have the slightest notion how much time had passed when he realized sturdier shapes were materializing in front of him, even through the redd-ish hue. The drag of breath through his lungs was suddenly acute, though heavier than it should be. Short bursts of ringing, like an alarm, had him searching for the face he knew he would find nearby, right at eye level.

“Thank fuc…” Derek made out through ever further cystallizing sound. “Derek!” And suddenly Stiles’ hands were back on his neck, but they were softer this time, warm. Just like the look on his face. Worried. Hard-fire will.

_ Fire _ . That’s what was flickering only a step or two behind Stiles. If only he could step in between the threat and Stiles, albeit Derek still couldn’t find the control to his limbs. Stiles coughed, and even Derek felt the raspy itch in his throat. Right, there was lichen and mountain ash burning over there.

Stiles was using it to stop the nogitsune… who was in Derek.

“Derek!” Stiles called again, directing his gaze to his eyes once more, a deep dark brown shadowed by the orange flame. “I’m going to try something. Okay? You have to trust me.”

There wasn’t much time. The dry foliage and already fragile wood of the house was quickly adding to the fire. But Derek didn’t need any more time.

He realized that his hand had somehow ended up on Stiles’ wrist, claws scraping his skin. Powering all of his will, the amount that Stiles had granted him with, the one strong enough to revive his wish for life, Derek clenched his jaw and fought through his steel-wired bones. His grip loosened, giving Stiles’ free range. A nod or verbal agreement might not have been in the equation but Derek was lucky that Stiles understood by his exhale and the message in his eyes. 

As he always did.

Then, Stiles’ hands pressed against his chest, trembling slightly. Derek’s vision flickered with the winding smoke but that was all eradicated with a flash of pain, striking him from head to toe. Worse than any electric shock he had ever felt, it seared through every nerve and burned, burned, and burned. There was no escape. No relief.

He came to again, crumbled on the floorboards, a scorching heat to his right. A shadow bent above him, though it wasn’t very distinguishable from the rest of the black and grey word around him. Every breath felt like a symphony of broken ribs weaving through his chest. 

Was this how it felt to burn? Agony, strong enough to make the toughest alpha combust. To render the wittiest man insane.

Derek was tired. So tired.

“Hey, no!”

Something shook Derek and he blinked up into a scene slowly regaining color. Stiles, panting, as he held his shirt in his fists, face streaked with soot or ash or both.

“Don’t you dare die on me, Derek,” he said, and he couldn’t even fathom how his eyes could possibly be tearing up with such heat around and inside him. Maybe they were burning from dryness?

The house fire probably left no room for tears last time. Why was Stiles so desperate to save him? Couldn’t he see that Derek deserved to join the ghosts infused in these walls?

“I almost got it. Just one more time. Hold on for me, Derek, you hear me?” Stiles demanded and Derek felt his palms pressing down on him again.

Then,  _ pain _ .

Flashes.

Tremors that shook him to the bone. 

Shouting, roaring, heat, a burning grip that held him steadfast even as the world streaked past him. This time though, it was less darkness, less numbness, and more… himself.

  
Derek breathed in lungfuls of air, trying to stop the world from spinning. Something wet and cool dropped on his cheek and he flinched. Immediately, a finger brushed it from his cheek and Derek followed its source up to Stiles’ exhausted eyes, with tear tracks clearing a path down his cheeks to the lips curled in a slight smile.

“We did it,” Stiles told him, torn voice barely above a whisper, but stark in Derek’s mind. They were both sprawled on the ground at the tree line to his old childhood home, which now stood completely aflame, and surely would never stand again after tonight.

On their other side, Lydia was kneeling, wearing soot herself, as if it was the newest fashion. She was staring wide eyed at the fire, before glancing at them cautiously, almost as if she was afraid to touch. Unsure if the hell fight was truly over.

“We did it,” Stiles repeated, before breaking into sobs. All Derek could offer at the moment was a hand on his uninjured shoulder. And as they shook, Derek could still feel the earth beneath them shaking in its own manner. 

Stiles sniffled, wiping at his face with his sleeve. 

“He- ...It- I had it captured still,” he panted, “and now it’s burning. We’re rid of it. It’s gone forever,” Stiles lifted himself to lean over and press his forehead against Derek’s, who breathed in peace for the first time in… what felt like an eternity.

If the nemeton was rumbling with pain and loss, or elation, they would never know but considering they had managed to defeat a millenia old demon of chaos and strife, it didn’t matter. They had come out on top.

All too soon, Stiles was being pulled from him, into the arms of a crying sheriff. The relieved father wasn’t the only one to arrive, Derek could multiple footsteps approaching but instead he rolled over to watch what was left of his childhood burn. He didn’t have anyone coming for him after all. All he had-

A dark figure suddenly obstructed his view, squatting right in front of him and a hand was thrust at his face. Derek blinked and lifted his head.

Peter.

Derek reached for his hand which restrained relief and let himself get pulled back on his feet. Strong arms wrapped around him instantly, almost stealing Derek’s breath again.

“Don’t ever do something stupid like that again. Not alone,” Peter instructed. Derek let him carry some of his weight, finding the man turning him away from the blazing inferno.

Derek nodded slowly as he was then led away.

  
  


**※⌘※⌘※⌘※**

  
  


“Does this mean I’m a werewolf now, too?” Stiles asked and Derek looked down at the male in his lap. They were seated on the Stilinski roof again. It would’ve felt too cliche and reminiscent of that one awful morning, but it had now become a steady hangout spot. A place just for the two of them beneath the moon and stars that was safe. It was weird how quickly Derek had settled into this house as his new home.

Even more mystifying to him was how easily both the sheriff and Stiles had somehow also accepted Peter’s occasional visits. Apparently, he was checking on Derek regularly now.

“I think we would know by now if the bite had turned you,” Derek replied, guilt biting at his stomach. Underneath the sleeve of his shirt, Stiles had gained a great new sacr, courtesy of Derek.

“Yeah, probably.” 

Derek couldn’t tell if there was more relief or disappointed wafting over from the male. As he ran a hand through his hair, Stiles’ piercing gaze ran over him.

“Stop it,” he said and Derek stilled.

“Not that,” Stiles interjected. “I like the head massage. But stop guilt-tripping yourself. We’ve talked about this.”

Derek said nothing in return, trying to expel the thoughts from his mind. It was quite a consolation how with Stiles he could allow himself to let go a little bit, and wasn’t just trying to conceal. Stiles saw through him in that way.

“It’s probably for the best,” Stiles continued undeterred. “Being only human has its perks, too.”

  
  


Derek paused again, but this time to learn closer, a thumb brushing along his cheekbone. Stiles looked up at him with an air of vulnerability and openness that always left Derek marveling. It was crazy how much Stiles still held in his mind, regardless of how much of himself he let out into the world. He was a wealth of life and being.

“You,” Derek said seriously into the quiet night, “aren’t  _ only _ anything.”

Color rose into Stiles’ cheeks beneath the silver moonlight, closely resembling the sunset they had watched an hour ago. Nothing romantic about it, necessarily. It was more of an assurance they were allowed to take their time to rest, that the calm night would protect them from the turbulence of life under the burning sun. A lunar savior.

It was a slow progression, a tip toeing discovery of possibilities the universe held, the way they had neared each other in the past months of their recovery. As well as the way Derek closed the distance, finding solace in Stiles’ soft lips. There was no rush, nor need for rushing heat between them yet. Just a gentle, sweet steadiness, as they both needed.

  
At least, Derek needed it, and Stiles, well. Stiles didn’t often stray from his side so he figured it was safe to assume.

Derek straightened with a light warmth in his own cheeks, especially as Stiles chased his lips with his fingers. They fell down off his chin and found a free hand to curl around. Lying back, Derek rearranged them across the blanket that cushioned the tiles. He tucked Stiles into his side, letting him rest a hand on his chest to feel the beating of his heart.

They lay in silence for a while, eyes so trained to the night sky, Derek counted at least one falling star every time they ended up here. It was ironic how humans took the death of a space substance and turned it into a wish. He’d considered it idiotic before, before he had let go of anger that was.

Now, he fondly remembered that Stardust movie, where a star fell and turned into woman, who saved the world. Life was a mess, a devastating and yet beautiful cacophony of loss and growth, and there wasn’t much to hold onto. But he’d learned when something good came across his path, he could fight to keep it.

Stiles had fallen awfully silent at his side too and Derek turned to take a closer look at him. He was staring off into the darkness, not particularly upward but off to the dark trees down south.

Derek urged him to disclose the obviously rushing thoughts with a brush of his thumb over his knuckles.

  
  


“Sometimes… I’m afraid I’m not only human… anymore,” Stiles said slowly, suddenly a lot more rigid. 

“I just-” he paused to exhale heavily, “Sometimes I get this… hazy feeling, like I’m numb. It’s like… I’m not me, or my body isn’t mine and I- I worry he’s still in there. Just waiting for me to slip up and come back. It’s like I can’t trust myself.”

Derek tightened his grip on his hand, bringing it up to place a kiss upon it. He knew it would be difficult to help Stiles with this part, as much as it broke his heart to hear Stiles insinuate seeing himself as a monster.

  
  


“And it feels like I’ll never be free. Ever. There’s always that possibility. We don’t know for sure if he died. If he even  _ can _ die. It’s like I’m… just a time bomb.” Stiles settled back into silence with a muted exasperation, weariness having returned to his features.

It was funny, Derek thought, how most people failed to consider that recovery was usually the hardest part. He took a deep breath of the warming spring breeze.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he said, as he turned on his side to face Stiles, leaning on his elbow. The hand on his chest slid down and Derek caught it, using his fingers to distract himself. 

Stiles waited patiently and even though Derek wasn’t meeting his eyes, he could feel them roving. Derek sighed.

“You healed something in me.” It felt crudely butchered with the way he blurted it out, and all of a sudden what he was trying to explain fell into a jumbled mess of letters in his head. Instead of opening, his jaw only clenched further, almost like it wanted to prove to Stiles that the opposite was true.

But Derek knew that he had two feet on the ground again. Roots. Despite what the lying voice in his head said.

“I can’t count the days I was sure I wouldn’t wake up the next day, or the nights where I just wished I wouldn’t. I can’t tell you how often I’ve despaired about the fact that I would bring so much pain and suffering to people around me in the future.”

“Derek,” Stiles interjected, embracing his hand with both of his. 

Derek gave them a squeeze and continued. “I never thought I would be free of it all. I could never imagine letting myself. But… here I am."

Stiles let out a bitter chuckle. "Had to settle with me of all-"

"Was lucky to get to settle with you. I don't know if I would've been able to find comfort like this in anyone else," Derek said, the honesty making him want to pull his shoulders up as if he could hide from it. 

"But that's not the point," he continued. "The point is, you brought that out in me. I'm not saying your super special or the number one best person in the world because regardless of what I think, I know I couldn't convince you of that."

Stiles scoffed at that, eyes reflecting the moon with a twinkly as his amusement sparked. Derek pinned him with a some stern eyebrows to make sure he kept his mouth shut until he finished talking. Stiles pursed his lips but raised his hands up slightly to proclaim his innocence. 

Derek nodded.

"What I wanna say is that… there is more good in you than bad. We're all only human in the sense that no one is perfect. But you fought off the nogitsune. You survived him. You exterminated him like some real life Ghostbuster. Not many people would have the strength to do that. Or have the resilience to keep going. You're allowed to feel however you need to process this. But through all the shit you've been through, you managed to heal me at the same time. Monsters hurt others for their own gain."

The words felt like they were starting to jump let on his tongue and Derek had to take a moment to just breathe. Fortunately, the tension that had been coming off of Stiles had eased somewhat already. 

Stiles rose up to meet him, tilting his chin up a bit with a curious expression.

"Did you seriously just call me a real life Ghostbusters?" He asked, having to bite his lip right after to continue the bubbling laugh.

"Well, demon-buster just doesn't have quite a ring to it." 

Stiles let his laugh ring out, before leaning in to kiss Derek again.

"What did I ever do to deserve you," he muttered against Derek's lips.

Derek pulled his head back.

"Me of all pe-"

"Oh shut up!" Stiles grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back down with him, back into his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think (:


End file.
